Hello, Darkness
by laharl
Summary: Originally an English coursework essay, I wrote this on the topic of 'The Quarrel'. Yamato seems to have a quarrel with the world, and this particular song fit his character and past perfectly. Tell me what you think- if you like it, I'll write more! :)


Hello, Darkness  
  
The static of the air crackled, like formless sparks they creaked and spat through the dusty speakers, a small dark form scuttling over the top of the black box to hide from the sudden vibrations. A jerk, a jarring, a sudden flame of life. The grainy sound drifted lazily over the deserted tube station, even its late-night travellers in bed by now. The halls, usually reverberating with the noise of a surge of passengers, were deathly still.  
  
A foot step.  
  
Hello, Darkness... My old friend... I've come to speak with you again...   
  
The vocalist's voice was calm, relaxing, sounding as though he had just finished a night of comfort-drinking at the bar and was humming the tune to himself as he padded home from a hard day's work. The was a swooning, almost regretful piano accompaniment, an undertone that just swam beneath the deep timbre of the lyrics. The loudspeaker's ancient design limited the clarity of the words somewhat, and at some of the lower notes the exact words were left to the imagination.  
  
It's late now. Too late to go back, I guess. Wonder if he's out there now, looking for me? Maybe. But I don't think so. He knows how weak I am, too pathetic to take care of myself, huh Dad? Think I'll be running home crying when you call my name? Well not this time.   
  
A small, hunched figure slipped quietly into the abandoned station, a hot rush of air sweeping from the long black tunnels blowing back the dusty blonde hair that hung in curtains over his pallid face. He moved with a timid, beaten air, but had anyone been there to notice him move they would also have detected the inescapable sense of anger radiating from this unlikely cynic. From the small part of his face that was not hidden by his newly-brushed hair or thick brown coat, a large sapphire eye peered critically out at the decrepit area around him. It was, though obviously belonging to the boy, of feminine beauty, and sadness welled in his hard, disillusioned gaze.  
  
Because of a vision, softly creeping... Left its seeds while I was sleeping...   
  
The man's voice now lilted softly over the platform, and the boy started, head jerking up to seek out the source of the music. His sandy fringe fell from his face for an instant, a face too old for his age and worn by more than merely time was bared to the world. In the split second that his fringe slipped from his left cheek, a dark patch was revealed, then veiled, hidden once more by the blonde sheet that had covered it before. The boy's eyes flickered around the station, the song sending shivers down his spine.  
  
And the vision that was planted in my brain still remains...   
  
Blue irises snagged on the block, seventies speaker attached inelegantly to the wall on the right of the opening of the tunnel.   
  
... Within the sound of silence.  
  
What? Where's that sound coming from? Oh... the speakers. Of course. Funny I didn't think of that first, huh? It's just... I've always associated that song with...   
  
The child, hampered by the coat he wore that looked easily like a fully grown man's overcoat stepped over to one of the splintered, dried-out benches that lined the depressingly bleak station. The shriek of rubber on concrete echoed startlingly loudly around the soul-less tiled corridors of the Underground each time one wearied foot slapped the floor, and a low rumble growled out from the stretching, endless track tunnel. The boy reached the paint-flaking seat, and fell down gratefully on it, even this unforgiving bench a relief from the tiring pavements of downtown London at night. A surprisingly gentle sigh escaped his unwilling lips as he sank back into the rounded wall behind him.   
  
In restless dreams I walked alone... Narrow streets of cobblestone... 'Neath the halo of a street lamp, I turned my collar to the cold and damp...   
  
A wry, ironic smile twisted itself free from the youth's embittered lips, as his tired head lolled back against the icy chipped tiling. It was cold, in winter, but not as stonily frosty as it was below ground. He shivered, and hunched further into the personal sanctuary that extended as far as the unfitting coat that dwarfed his skinny figure. He drew his knees up, and curled both throbbing arms around them, even physically protecting himself from the unknown horrors of the empty station.  
  
Oh, what the hell have I gotten myself into this time? Christ, I like making trouble. There's no way I can go back after what happened... but do I really have the strength to leave? I won't... no, I can't see him again. All these years, I've run back to him even after all he's done, God knows why 'cause I sure as hell don't. This time, I want to leave. Get out now, you know? Not... go home and... be...  
  
The boy gasped as felt an unfamiliar wetness slide from his left eye. With a start his hand flew to his face, and he winced as one gloved finger brushed beneath his hair. Surely, after all these years, I've lost the ability to cry? Could it be the shell I've built around me? More likely is that I just don't have any more tears to shed. There's nothing inside me, but emptiness. Well, so I thought, anyway.  
  
... When my eyes were stabbed by a flash of neon light that pierced the night...  
  
He felt those words. That harsh, wounding language was one he had become all too familiar with.  
  
... And touched the sound of silence.  
  
For a moment, the piano, previously lost in the backdrop of melancholy beneath the tune itself, rose and played flawlessly out over the static of the song. Its soulful melody rose out of the loudspeaker, and the jazzy looseness washed easily over the one, roughened person that sat trembling on the wooden bench. The notes flowed together, weaving a rich carpet that almost, in its intensity, seemed to smother him.   
  
And in the naked light I saw ten thousand people, maybe more... People listening without hearing, people talking without speaking...   
  
The voice now returned from whatever void it had disappeared to in the piano's brief interlude, now back in full coarse splendour. The words hit home, and hurt more than and fist or palm ever could have. The boy sat wide-eyed on the bench, gently rocking to and fro with the easy rhythm of the song. Images, memories, flickered before him, and he squirmed in his seat, desperately trying to stifle the remnants of a long-lost 'childhood'. There was too much there, coming too fast, too heavy, crushing him, forcing air from his bruised lungs. For the second time, he felt the terrifying feel of two drink-dulled thumbs pressing into his windpipe, and the gargling sound rose once more from his thrashing mouth, though this time it was only in his head. The words of the song, his one life-line of sanity, were lost completely in the whirlpool of time, now not emanating from the ancient speakers hanging on the wall but coming from the very depths of his being. He coughed, falling from the cracked seat, and collapsed on the institutional grubby floor. As his consciousness swam back into focus, and he found his self-control returning, the voice started again, sudden and unexpected, the music having continued without his knowledge.   
  
... Hear my words that I might teach you... take my arms that I might reach you... But my words like silent raindrops fell and echoed in the wells of silence.  
  
Suddenly a roar drowned out the gentleness of the bitter song, and two pin-pricks of light knifed out of the pitch-blackness of the tunnel. A gust of wind blew strongly against the crumbled boy, and almost instantly the mechanical monolith had arrived, rushing frighteningly quickly parallel to the almost forsaken platform. Cruel, neon lights fizzed inside the tatty interior, strange and alien to the child, like so much of the world. The brakes exhaled, and the speeding dragon stilled momentarily, carriage doors sliding open like gateways to sanctity, yet also grinning mouths ready to swallow him whole.  
  
Shaking, he felt the taste of blood in his mouth as he rose unsteadily to his feet, and leaned against the wall, trying to catch his breath. There it was, his escape and his salvation, his getaway. He was torn.  
  
His head dropped, and his shoulders shook as the train vibrated impatiently beside him. The trench coat hung lifelessly from his neglected shoulders, whilst one finger traced the contours of the rotten tiles on the walls and his mind fought for the final decision. There was no one to run to, no one to ask, there had never been.  
  
By myself, I'd always thought I'd be okay. But now... now that this dream is a reality...   
  
His heart thumping, he straightened his back, and drew himself up to his full height, straining to produce an aura of control even if it fooled no one but himself. He glanced back at the memory-ridden, littered Underground corridor that he had come in by, and his deeply injured eyes flashed in final defiance. Whispering something beneath his breath, his gaze jumped quickly to the speaker on the wall, still playing its unheard music. He smiled and nodded his head.  
  
The train shuddered into life once more, speeding away into the shady tunnel with a burst of electricity and power that shook the entire station with its ferocity. As the that last ricochets of sound rebounded off the unresponsive passage walls, the last strains of music filtered out over the now entirely empty station, the final line of the song rising again in its calming, haunting voice, seemingly calling after the final passenger who had just boarded the last train-  
  
... And the sign said: "The words of prophets are written on subway walls, and tenement halls, and whisper'd in the sound of silence." 


End file.
